White orange - Xanax Pop, by Lewis LaCook

I dress out of season for these trees. The coolest wedge of an april moon drowns my tongue in a fury of budding. Such solemnity she limns through what she wants to believe: as if there were nothing between her but the sky and the poem, staggering --"Young, dumb, and full of cum" A man spoke to them from lying on bascule bridge, asked "You okay?" Yeah, I guess. The end of her umbrella smells of burni ng hair along the guts of clifton ave crunk mother loose, knows karate --There's Sirens Back There- "You got some nice things, mr or mrs America; I like throwing them at you" You don't know what a badass motherfucker I am. I gargle sliced moonlight sets little fires licking the hair she so ardently believed in. It's true she'd heard those birds before: "--fucking the shit out of you mom ffucking, fucking it fucking the shit the shit the shit out of your mom